


No Dawn

by The_Quartermasters



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angry Sex, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Depressing, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mutual Dubious Consent, Self-Harm, Ten Years Later Arc, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Quartermasters/pseuds/The_Quartermasters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say it's always the darkest before dawn, but how can the day break at all if there isn't a Sky?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Dawn

There was a sort of panic that came at the end of a fight these days. Since then. It was a thankfulness, Yamamoto supposed -- that they'd lived, that they'd walked away. But every brush was a reminder, salt in a wound that seemed to stay forever fresh. A reminder both of what they'd lost and the precipice upon which they stood, barely holding back utter destruction.   
  
It seemed like a joke now, every time they returned to the plush comfort in which the higher ranking members of the Vongola had once decorated their quarters. It was a fall back to a time that was simpler, when they had time to consider things like rugs and bedposts. At first it was an inspiration, keeping them close to that which they strove to gain back. But now it mocked them, especially when their finely tailored suits returned tattered and bloodstained and scorched fingers contrasted harshly with polished brass fixtures.   
  
Lately, it was all any of them could do to even get the Storm and Rain to clean the blood from their faces before they were leaping back out into the fray-- Gokudera, because he seemed to need the constant distraction and Yamamoto, because he needed to make sure the silver-haired man came back alive. More or less.   
  
The men they'd killed that night were nobodies. Low ranking white suits, not even good enough to carry boxes. Not one recognizable face among them and a handful of dynamite was all it took. A few focused explosions and two or three nicks of steel and it was over without enough blood spilled to warm Gokudera's hands.   
  
But that didn't mean he wouldn't try. The corpse he slammed against blackened brick was already missing an arm, a leg, half a face, a smoldering pit was all that was left of the man's middle, but still he threw it down, stamped hard, heedless of the flecks of blood and human debris that stained his already worn slacks, soaked into the scuffs on his shoes. They'd been expensive. Fine Italian leather. He couldn't have cared less.   
  
"Fucking cocksucking Millefiore sons of bitches," he snarled, low, choked curses.   
  
"Gokudera." Yamamoto's voice held that severity that it had only recently discovered, that was saved only for Gokudera in the moments that it was needed. And a hand was pulling at the back of his collar, firmly but gently easing him away from the mire that they'd created. "That's enough. It's over." It was dissatisfying and he knew the other man wouldn't take away anything that he needed from this fight. "Let's go home."   
  
"No, dammit!" Gokudera shook free and whipped around, one hand lifting to yank the limp hair away from his face, succeeding only in smearing the strands with gore. "It's <i>not</i> enough! And it won't be over until every last fucking one of them is dead." He pushed past the taller man, not even hearing the crunch of delicate hand bones as he trod over the corpse of another faceless mark.   
  
Sadly, Yamamoto watched his back for a moment before he followed with one final glance. It was too much. This wasn't what any of them had entered in to -- this wasn't their style. But with trash burning, smoldering foully around them, the black smoke mirrored the silver that trickled from Gokudera's lips and it sank heavily upon even stubbornly naive Yamamoto that it _was_ their style now. That it had to be. He felt inexplicably tired as he sank into the driver's seat of the black sedan that waited for them around the corner.   
  
Gokudera pressed his cheek to the window's cool glass, closing his eyes against the lights that flashed by outside as they drove. His blood lust had ebbed once the burning junkyard could no longer be seen in the rear view mirror and it left him empty, exhausted, nursing a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the cigarette Yamamoto was, strangely, allowing him to smoke without complaint. It almost covered the smell of blood that had long ago settled deep into the upholstery. Maybe that was why.   
  
There were no more warm welcomes when anyone came home anymore. They merely checked in, confirming that they were not dead. That was all that was expected and it was thankfully so as the sleep that followed tended to be more satisfying than the battle these days. Yamamoto was persistent though and stayed by Gokudera's side as they returned to their quarters.   
  
Gokudera ignored his taller shadow as he trudged down the hallway, ignored the sooty footprints he left behind on the already grey floor, ignored the rusty smudge his fingers left on the door frame, the door as he pushed it open, stepped into the room, ignored Yamamoto and crossed the floor to open a low, worn cabinet beside his bed.   
  
Though he pulled out two glasses along with the dark bottle, he didn't bother to pour, only unscrewed the cap and took a deep swallow as though the alcohol would do anything but make him thirstier. His hand shook when he set the bottle down and he didn't look at Yamamoto when he picked it up again.   
  
Yamamoto frowned as he poured two stingy servings of golden liquor, the brief image of grace sullied when dirty, bloody fingerprints smudged the glasses as he passed one to Gokudera. "You could at least shower first," he chided gently, though he tipped his own glass to his lips and welcomed the light burn that he knew Gokudera had made himself too well acquainted with recently.   
  
Gokudera frowned at the glass, at the meager swallow offered, but he took it anyway. He had already sobered from the night's kill; he didn't want to let his veins flow too cleanly. "No," he said, touching the empty glass to his lips as though it might refill itself when he opened his eyes again. He opened his eyes.   
  
Yamamoto still stood there. It was still dark. He was still too sober. And the glass was still empty.   
  
Gokudera turned to the door. "It's hours yet until dawn. I'm going back out."   
  
"Gokudera!" the other interrupted sharply, setting his drink down. "Stop it. You have to rest some time. You heard Fuuta-kun, there's nothing else out there tonight. Just stop for now."   
  
"I don't need the kid, dammit! I'll- I'll find them myself! Stay here then, stay and shower and change your clothes and pretend there's enough blood yet on your fucking suit. Fuck!" The sound of his own fist hitting the wall startled even Gokudera, and he stared at his bruised knuckles as though wondering who they belonged to. Flakes of grey plaster fell between his fingers.   
  
It was almost subtle, the way that Yamamoto managed to get himself between Gokudera and the door. A gentle hand took his wrist to inspect it and that new brand of smile appeared -- that weak, ugly smile that didn't reach Yamamoto's eyes. "At least focus that anger outward and not on yourself, na?" he said with the weakest laugh. "You need those hands to throw, right?"   
  
Gokudera wouldn't meet his gaze, couldn't stand to see mirrored back to him what he knew was in his own, had been there since that day. He shook his head, but he didn't know what he was disagreeing with. His hand hurt but he didn't know if was because he'd injured himself, or if it was just that Yamamoto was still holding it like he was waiting for something. "I'm really fucking tired," he finally said and it made his throat hurt to speak. A shallow, painful breath and Gokudera's mouth twitched upward in a gesture that might have been anything but a smile.   
  
"You should shower," Yamamoto tried again. The injury wasn't quite bad enough for the infirmary and Gokudera would never go there anyway. He hesitated, fingers twitched and then hand lifted to brush under the shaggy curtain of silver hair and rest lightly on the back of Gokudera's neck. "It'll make you feel better." To rinse the blood from their hands if only for the night.   
  
Gokudera laughed, a hollow, humorless sound, and for one brief moment, he looked into Yamamoto's face, regretted it instantly. He reached up and swatted the other man's hand from his hair. "You shower first then and tell me how it makes you feel." He sought the end of the bed, sitting down heavily and reached for the liquor bottle again.   
  
Yamamoto sighed inwardly, taking a moment to close his eyes when Gokudera walked past him, gathering himself before he turned again. It couldn't be helped -- and if getting drunk kept him from going out and getting killed, so be it. "You promise not to go out again?" he wanted to know before he allowed his own freshening.   
  
"No," Gokudera said simply. "I won't make any more promises." But he kicked off his shoes and held his refilled glass without drinking it all at once.   
  
It was a strange, silent understanding but Yamamoto took what he could get and was too spent to argue it further. But it didn't prevent him from using Gokudera's facilities to clean up, letting layers quickly fall away, unceremoniously left in a trail to the shower. For Gokudera's protest, he found the hot spray of water to be one of the few welcoming things in this place they called home anymore and he sighed heavily as he let it fall across his face and run over his head. The water ran pink and tinged brown as it swirled around his feet and down the drain, hurrying obediently to whisk away another life or two that was easy enough to wash from his body, if not from his conscience. And closing his eyes, he sagged under the showerhead with hands on the nozzle, letting the near-scalding water flow down his neck and brow.   
  
When the water ran almost clean and the knots of Yamamoto's shoulders had loosened enough to make breathing almost easy, the room's quiet was interrupted by the bang of a sudden entrance and the shriek and snap of the shower door being thrown open. Before he could react, Gokudera was on him, dirty hands shoving him against the wall with little concern for his already bruised torso. The smaller man was barefoot and had lost his jacket somewhere between the bed and the bathroom, but was otherwise fully clothed, unconcerned or unaware of the hot water that soaked him instantly to the skin. He breathed as though he'd only just that moment put his dynamite away, only just stepped over the bodies of the Millefiore and when he took Yamamoto's lip between his teeth, he smelled of booze and blood and desperation.   
  
Blood rushed instantly, Yamamoto prepared to defend himself when the other's mouth was crushing against his, so angry and desperate and nothing like it should have been. Just as instantly that surge drained and Yamamoto went pale in spite of the steam that swirled around them, shock and horror apparent in his wide eyes as his shoulders hit the wet tiles. He was mad -- or he was drunk -- but -- guilt, as it turned out, raced faster than blood and he was sure it was guilt that flushed his face again when shaking hands grabbed for the front of Gokudera's shirt for an instant and he kissed back, hard and with his own measure of desperation. Gokudera's flavor was so harsh that it almost made his stomach turn, acrid smoke and alcohol and copper but it was just as well with the kiss that could barely be called such. Rather, it was a clash, for only a moment when emotion ran hotter than the shower water. But then he was pushing Gokudera away with a throaty gasp, shaking his head as though he could toss off the way that it suddenly swam. "I told you not to drink," he forced a harsh, unnatural laugh into his voice. "Get away."   
  
"Fuck you," Gokudera growled and came at him again, hands grabbing for nothing, slipping across Yamamoto's wet shoulders until he found purchase at the back of his head, digging hard into his hair, pulling, pushing. "Shut the fuck up, Yamamoto," he snarled and wrenched his head back, knocking him against the tiled wall, hard enough to feel, but not enough to hurt the man who suddenly didn't seem much taller than him at all. "Don't you fucking lie to me. You always wanted this, didn't you? Well fuck you, asshole. Don't you fucking pussy out now. You shit." It wasn't much like a kiss at all, but Gokudera took it anyway.   
  
Yamamoto wasn't foolish enough to try to deny the accusation but it didn't keep him from gasping, uttering a protest between Gokudera's angry lips. Fingers tangled and dug in the back of his soaked shirt, fresh crimson dripping down them under the water's wash. Even if he had wanted something -- it wasn't this. Nothing should be like this. "Stop it," he panted, an unfamiliar panic creeping into the calm boy's veins. But Gokudera's mouth was on his again a breath later and a sound vibrated between them -- it should have been angry. But instead it came out like fear and want and he instantly hated it. He yanked hard at Gokudera's shirt, pulling him away.   
  
"You're not right -- this isn't right," he tried to reason, tried to escape the horrible kisses that were nothing like they should have been.   
  
But Gokudera's gaze was on his and his mouth was open and panting and his eyes were swollen with a million things that hurt far too much to identify. He stared and ached and didn't blink, waiting. "I don't care," the silver-haired man finally gasped. "Nothing-- nothing's right anymore." The water poured down his face, plastered tangled hair against his cheek and still he didn't look away.   
  
"Gokudera..." Yamamoto breathed and his chest was tight, his heart constricted painfully. He lifted his hands to swipe the hair back from the other man's face, only reflecting back the pain that he saw there. He wanted -- god, how he wanted. He wanted to be able to make everything right. He wanted to see the stupid smile that had always been his greatest envy, that now seemed as though it were lost forever. He wanted... And with clutching hands sliding to the back of the other man's head, he pressed to his lips again, trying to find a kiss that wasn't just pain. It had to be hidden here somewhere, the kiss that he'd always imagined and he searched with his wanting lips, only hoping that if he found that kiss, that at least one thing might be right.   
  
But it was only a shallow breath later that Gokudera broke away with a gasp, his face sickly pale and his eyes avoidant. He was looking down then, took a step back, bumped his shoulder on the shower door as he tugged sluggishly at his belt, fingers slipping on wet leather, the metal buckle that he couldn't seem to loosen until he cried out in frustration and ripped a belt loop. He looked up again, but didn't meet Yamamoto's gaze as his hands closed around the swordsman's wrists and he pulled, backing them out of the shower, wet feet barely managing to keep purchase on the tiled floor. "Come on," he choked out, placing Yamamoto's hands on his soaked shirt front, even as he kept them moving, leading them back to the other room, away from the fluorescents and the too-clean bright white of the bath. "I'll let you. Just do it. Take whatever you ever wanted. Hurry. _Please_."   
  
Yamamoto's stomach twisted sharply, uncomfortably with his words, his voice, his body pressed against him. He knew he shouldn't, that he should force Gokudera away, should fight him until he collapsed into bed and gave up. That's what a decent person would do. What a good partner would do. But instead he followed, fumbling for his tie, for buttons that ripped and clattered as Gokudera urged him forward until the wet fabric was hastily peeled away, dropped carelessly. Stumbling out of the bathroom, he pinned the other against the wall, Yamamoto's mouth on his neck for a moment, kissing hard, sucking droplets from his skin. "We --" he panted, moving up, sucking below an ear, guilt and want warring in his churning stomach. "Gokudera, we shouldn't..." Hands were frozen, holding to the front of Gokudera's belt, trembling. He should have drank more.   
  
Gokudera's eyes no longer sought him out, instead glazed over in a strange sort of sightlessness and he groaned audibly, guided Yamamoto's hands, grew impatient, pushed them away and loosened his slacks himself, wet fabric clinging as he stepped away from them. He grabbed for Yamamoto's wrists a second time, placing them around his waist, pressing the other man's palms into the small of his back. "We've never been much good at doing what we -should-," he argued, the bitter regret in his voice only overshadowed by bizarre determination as he pushed back, shoving Yamamoto toward the bed. Halfway there, he seemed to think better of it and stopped, turned them around so they, instead, bumped roughly into the bedside table, knocking the unlit lamp to the floor. His teeth found purchase in Yamamoto's shoulder and his tongue traced the marks he left.   
  
When the taller boy flinched, Gokudera made his move-- in one quick, surprisingly swift motion, throwing Yamamoto to the floor, and then before he had a chance to catch his breath, climbed over his knees, straddled his thighs. "It's a long time yet until morning," he breathed, barely a whisper as his hands found and coaxed Yamamoto to readiness as though it were something he'd done a million times before. "Are you going to watch over me all night?" He lifted one of Yamamoto's hands, bit down on his open palm as he prepared and positioned himself, paused to breathe hot against the abused skin under his tongue. "We could still go back out...."   
  
It was too fast -- Yamamoto was reeling, suddenly finding himself with the other man over him as though he had no idea how he'd gotten there. Flushed to hardness under Gokudera's seemingly expert coaxing, he found himself drowning in a flow of shame and muddy, dirty desire and he knew without question as hot breath brushed down his wrist, he would not be able to pull himself back out. "No," Yamamoto finally breathed, the points of pain that Gokudera had peppered across his body throbbing with agreement. "Stay with me."   
  
Instead of answering murmurs, instead of shared promises, what fell from Gokudera's mouth was an unfettered cry as he sank down suddenly, filling himself with a compromise that couldn't begin to touch the other emptiness he'd carried since _that_ day. He didn't bother to stifle the moans that pushed past his teeth-- his body wasn't ready and he knew it, but hardly cared, perversely grateful for the painful stretch of abused muscle, the tear of tender skin. He rose to his knees with a gasp and pushed down again, Yamamoto's wrist falling from his hand, nails now digging deep crescents into Yamamoto's sides. "F-fuck! Oh-- oh fuck..." His breath came in short gulps and maybe he was going to cry, but even Gokudera couldn't tell, and his damp hair fell over his eyes anyway.   
  
Yamamoto's breath was quick to the point of hyperventilation, his head spinning with onslaught and torn between his guilt and his arousal and his fear. "Gokudera...!" he gasped, the name laden with worry and a filthy sort of pleasure. He knew the other man was hurting himself but it felt so good. He reached for Gokudera's face, tried to coax him closer, wanting to kiss him so badly. Wanting his touch to be a comfort instead of a punishment. "P-please be careful," he begged.   
  
But careful was exactly what Gokudera did not want to be. If he slowed his pace, if he tried to ease into a comfortable rhythm then he might begin to think instead of just doing, and if his thoughts began to wander too far he might... "No!" he choked, curling forward to find Yamamoto's mouth in a kiss that was more teeth than lips and more desperate than desiring. He should have kept drinking. Frustrated, stomach in knots, the dynamite user jerked his hips hard, roughly, no skill or instinct driving his movements. "More," he pleaded, panicking as the sting of Yamamoto's entry already began to dull, " _Please_... I can't... oh god, I need-- I need..." he moved again, but his legs were shaking now and his movements were growing more and more awkward, erratic. "Fuck! I can't... do it. Fuck!"   
  
The curses were interrupted by Yamamoto's mouth, a hand in Gokudera's hair roughly dragging them together, demanding more than a brief clash of teeth. He crushed against the other man's mouth hard, rough as he forced his tongue deeply past those protesting lips. Filling him, lapping hard at his bitter tongue and swallowing any further words. He didn't dare to release with his hand but used his other to guide, a firm grip squeezing at Gokudera's hip, searching out something that would appease his frantic want with deep, grinding touches. When he was sucking Gokudera's tongue into his own mouth, only then did he use both hands to forcefully pull and push him down on his erection, trying not to think about the blood that he knew was causing the slick feeling that eased his entry. His own nails dug now and he sucked roughly at Gokudera's lip as he yanked the other man down on his lap, feeling nothing but dirty pleasure, feeling as though it weren't Gokudera's heat around him at all. But rather his own hand, touching himself to an imagined scene.   
  
Any further words died on Gokudera's tongue, but the voice that would have carried them still escaped, drawn by Yamamoto's mouth, by his hands and his cock and his unspoken demand. And Gokudera screamed into his skin, not caring who might hear them, rather reveling in the hope that someone would. He hoped their friends --those they had left-- would all hear and know what he did and hate him and Yamamoto both for the sort of self-destructive, violent indulgence that _HE_  would never have approved of. He hoped everyone would forget that they'd ever said it wasn't his fault, that it wasn't his or Yamamoto's or anyone's fault. Because Gokudera knew better. And their forgiveness was the last thing he wanted.   
  
He said nothing but cried out every thrust, letting Yamamoto guide them both, lost to the burn and the ache and the feeling of being artificially filled, over and over again.   
  
"Gokudera..." was panted heavily into his mouth, Yamamoto's hips starting to lift up to meet him. Hands still guided, squeezed a narrow hips, fingers playing over ribs recently underfed. "God..." Fingers trailed down his stomach to find the other man's half-hearted arousal, fingers still hot from the shower when they curled around it, hopeful, wanting to fool himself that Gokudera might feel something too.   
  
With both elbows lying alongside Yamamoto's head, Gokudera could only let his brow rest against the other man's, heedless of the hot breath they shared, determined to take the swordsman as deeply as possible, to break himself if he could. When Yamamoto's hand closed around him he almost didn't notice, so focused he was, but then that hand began to move and he jerked, swallowing a gasp and wincing as his skull knocked against Yamamoto's. "N-no," he shuddered. "Stop, you can't..." It wasn't supposed to be like that. A touch like that felt good, too good.   
  
A hand came up, fingers digging in to Gokudera's hair and holding him in place, panting hard across his lips as he refused to release even if the other man's arousal was slow to respond. He did his best to guide the rhythm with his hips alone while he cupped one cheek in his palm and laughed breathily between them. "Why? It's... uhn... it's not fair..." he panted slowly. "Because it feels so good... so good for me..."   
  
Gokudera groaned into the touch, desperate to hate what his body was determined to enjoy. He wasn't looking for an equal exchange, just... just a distraction. Somehow though, his protests never gained voice. He could only squeeze his eyes shut tighter, looking for darkness, despite the already dim light of the room. There were no windows underground, but be knew it was still dark outside, no flickering fluorescent bulbs could fool his senses.   
  
With Yamamoto beneath him, filling him with a need not too unlike his own, Gokudera couldn't help but wish it would stay dark forever, that daylight would never interrupt his hunt again, that he would never need to think of anything but going out to kill and coming back here to forget the reason he needed to kill in the first place.   
  
"Nn, yeah..." Yamamoto murmured, squeezing more persistently, thumbing roughly at Gokudera's head. Desperate to hear his voice, dying to share this with him instead of take it from him. "Please, Gokudera..."   
  
Balancing himself on one arm was awkward, but Gokudera needed the other to reach between them and push at Yamamoto's hand, gasping at the thumb that flicked across heated flesh, guiltily hard. "D-don't--"   
  
Yamamoto groaned, a frustrated expression crossing his face before he was pawing at Gokudera with gripping hands, dragging him down and using force to flip him over when he started to struggle. With the other man on his back, pressing his shoulders into the carpet, Yamamoto's breath shuddered heavily as he sank impossibly deep. "You're so stubborn," he breathed shakily.   
  
Gokudera wanted to argue, but with the rough carpet beneath his shoulders and Yamamoto so deep inside him it made it hard to breathe... that-- that was what he wanted, what he needed. "Yes," he said and closed his eyes, bit his lip and spread his knees wider. He wanted to scream, to reach up and shake Yamamoto until he stopped thinking, stopping worry and fussing and trying to be gentle. Until he stopped caring and just started taking. Instead he wrapped his legs around the taller man, and covered his face with the back of his arm. "Come on," he breathed, harsh through clenched teeth.   
  
Forehead tucked against Gokudera's shoulder, Yamamoto's breath was starting to come ragged when he moved again, not sure if he was thankful for the control or not. But with Gokudera's legs curling around him, urging him on, he couldn't put up much resistance. Shaking fingers raked through his damp, silver hair as he pressed in deep again, the new angle adding different sensation. Breathy, wordless murmurs came around kisses to neck and ear, desperate -- desperate for so many things, on the precipice of self-destruction but fueled by the desire to make something right and good.   
  
It still hurt, just enough to remind Gokudera what he was doing there, and still he pressed his arm tighter to his face, until his vision sparked with bursts of red and black and he'd once more given up control of his voice, letting clips of rough Italian slip between the moans and it didn't matter anyway because the words weren't meant for Yamamoto. Neither the curses nor the choked and gentle pleas.   
  
Hands slid from Gokudera's hips, across his ribs, quiet gasps between hungry kisses to his throat as Yamamoto found a powerful tempo that was only increasing. When he captured Gokudera's mouth in a demanding, rough kiss that left no room for argument and curled fingers tight around his stubborn, half-hearted erection, the silver haired man was far too distracted to notice the tears that spilled past Yamamoto's lashes.   
  
Gokudera's parted lips invited Yamamoto's mouth, even if he wouldn't look at the other man, even if his free hand dug hard enough into Yamamoto's arm to leave bruises. His heel found and caught at Yamamoto's tailbone, pulling him closer, frantic lest he slow enough for Gokudera to become comfortable. He didn't seem to notice the heat that swelled and filled Yamamoto's hand.   
  
With pleasure mounting in spite of the challenges it faced, Yamamoto groaned deep into the other's mouth, reaching again for his hair but this time to grip, pulling slightly as he devoured, bit, sucked. As reluctant as he was to completely give in to the carnality of the moment, with Gokudera pulling at him just so, he was starting to fall apart, hips bucking harder into him. He squeezed, tugged roughly at Gokudera's cock, his own loins only aching harder with the way it heated in his grip.   
  
Gokudera winced with the abuse to his scalp, bit the inside of his mouth, gasped and jerked, nails clawing at carpet, eyes squeezed shut hard enough to make his head ache and he cursed, cried and taunted Yamamoto in words the Japanese boy barely understood. His heels dug bruises into the small of Yamamoto's back and he dared the other to do things worse, to mark him, break him, bite him, kill him, but his courage spoke only Italian and he could not look Yamamoto in the eye.   
  
Oblivious to this, teeth scraped and fingers grasped, biting wet lines down throat and across chest. Yamamoto's knees were burned from the carpet and he paid no mind, toes gripping as he pounded into Gokudera now with quiet grunts. The other man's name was a quiet, begging mantra on his breathless lips, stroking him harder, tighter, spitting into his palm to ease his grip which bordered on painful in all of his desperate enthusiasm. "Please, please..." he pleaded again and again. Please let us see this through, please be okay, please stay with me, please let us suffer together, always together. A broken shout tumbled from his lips, half sob and he muffled his voice with a bite to Gokudera's throat, refusing climax from his own body though he shook and sweat rolled down his back.   
  
With every thrust, with every touch, with every sobbing plea, Gokudera's unrestrained cries lost meaning until there were no more words at all, and all that was left was a breathless keening and a growing, aching sensation that filled him from head to toe. It tore at him, demanded every inch and every thought and for one brief, beautiful moment, Gokudera felt nothing at all. Complete.   
  
And then the crash came, and he gasped, choked and clawed at the weight that pressed him down, burned his back and filled him, painfully and without apology and he cried because Tsuna was dead and the Millefiore were still alive and so was he and so was Yamamoto, and Gokudera was sober and weak and alive and deserved none of it.   
  
Yamamoto clung, his own voice all but stolen away and reduced to the attempt to draw some semblance of air into his lungs as Gokudera clutched at him. Fingernails dug in, arms wrapping tight around him until his own sob was muffled into Gokudera's shoulder and horrible guilt and pain and relief washed through him, so selfish and wanting and hoping that the world would ever resemble what it was again. And Gokudera was the only thing that kept him grounded, the only thing that kept him from detaching completely. He didn't know when physical peak ebbed but still he held tight, his face buried in Gokudera's hair as he heaved with breath and shook and shared silently in Gokudera's tears.   
  
Gokudera didn't move, barely breathed, no longer struggled or pushed or screamed, but his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth and he felt sick, the unspoken words on his tongue as poisonous as any cooking he'd ever consumed. _I hurt like I'm dying. My fingers are numb and I don't feel the bombs' heat anymore. I'm drowning in the impossibility of a revenge that won't change anything and I'm taking you with me and I'm not even sorry about it._  "I've forgotten how to hope for anything but death."   
  
For a moment it was as though Yamamoto hadn't heard him, the only sound from him the deep panting that brought Gokudera between his lips. But then he shifted just slightly and pressed his forehead to Gokudera's, expression hardly a peaceful one but rather in turmoil, eyes tremblingly shut. "I know," he murmured. Perhaps he clung so hard because he hoped the tiny drops of hope that he still had might save them both. But... "Whatever happens, we do it together. If we die, we die together." Eyes too weary to smile anymore opened, searched.   
  
The un-masked emotion in those grey-green eyes was so horribly _raw_ , Gokudera’s tears might well have been blood. He couldn't be sure what Yamamoto was looking for, but all the same, he didn't think there was anyone who had the strength to find it anymore. Still he found his mouth moving, a silent affirmation, the most he could offer. All he had left.   
  
Arms crushed, wrapped too tight around him as a shuddering breath was drawn and he tried to wrap Gokudera up in him. Whether he sucked dry that last bit of hope, Yamamoto didn't care. This was all they had anymore -- an understanding, shared, of a pain that no one around them could begin to fathom. If they drowned in it, so be it; if they died they would take down as many as possible along the way. His naive respect for life, he found, had drained away in light of the search for Gokudera's smile that their friend had taken to his grave. And silently, he sealed this promise with light kisses at Gokudera's jaw.   
  
"Tomorrow," he finally breathed, the Japanese coming to Gokudera's lips with some difficulty. "Tomorrow, I-- want to go and see him." Yamamoto's kisses burned where they touched his skin. Too hot, too generous, but he had no strength to fight him. "And-- and then... after that..." _'Whatever happens...'_    
  
Yamamoto nodded, silent understanding. "In the morning," he agreed quietly, smoothed Gokudera's hair away from his sweaty face. "Let's shower for real," he suggested. "We don't want to be a mess when we visit."   
  
Gokudera raised no objection, but he knew in the morning he would wake before the swordsman and he knew he would make the short trek himself, alone and be back before Yamamoto stirred. And maybe he would still go again with the other man and maybe he would pretend he hadn't already been, or maybe he would change his mind and stay behind. But whatever he decided, there was no need to say it aloud, and so he let the other man help him to his feet, shaky as he was and followed him quietly to the shower. The water was still running and still, strangely, hot.   
  
"Do you think he'd like flowers?"   
  
When the door slid shut, the taller man's breathing had slowed and a tiny, wistful smile even made its way to his lips as he guided Gokudera carefully under the water. His hands were gentle and firm as he washed Gokudera's shoulders. Always reliable, Yamamoto. "I think he'd like that very much," he replied quietly.   
  
Cool tiles and warm hands both imitated support and Gokudera closed his eyes and began counting down from a thousand.   
  



End file.
